Every artwork begins before it becomes. Some begin in memory, not as recollection, which is orderly and requested, but as arrival: images that come uninvited, in chaotic motion, forming and dissolving the way clouds spread and thin across the sky. I do not summon them. I notice, at some point, that the mind has narrowed the way an eye narrows against glare. Something in that drift wants to be seen. The state resembles clairvoyance more than remembering: a mind sensing something that has not yet clearly revealed.

What I sense first has no appearance. It refuses weight, dimension, surface; and yet it behaves like a force with direction, patient and territorial, pressing on perception from a place where visible form does not yet exist. It is not an image. Not yet. It is a vision: all pressure, no surface. Little by little it clarifies, bringing the past forward and quietly re-forming the present, until it crosses the barriers of perception, eroding the distance between then and now the way a river erases a dam.